Fletch and the Man Who by Gregory McDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

death.” Fenella was staring at the papers in Fletch’s hands. “Idiot.”
    “How do you know about Robbins’s death?” Fletch asked. “We got the news only three minutes ago.”
    “Give us the damned statement!” Bill Dieckmann shouted. “I’ve got the first phone!”
    “You know the governor couldn’t possibly have made a statement,” Fletch said. “He’s in the factory!”
    “Are you playing with us?” Ira Lapin yelled.
    “No,” Fletch said. “Here are the statements.” He tried to hand them out, but they were grabbed from him.
    Bill Dieckmann said to Betsy Ginsberg, “You I can outrun.”
    “With a strong tail wind,” Betsy said.
    “You must have wires screwed into your heads,” Fletch muttered.
    Andrew Esty scanned the statement, then looked up at Fletch. There was rage in his face. “There’s no religious consolation in it! In the statement!” Esty wore a
Daily Gospel
button even in the lapel of his overcoat.
    “God,” Fletch said.
    At varying speeds, the members of the press slid through the snow and wind to the telephones inside the factory’s main gates.
    Except Freddie Arbuthnot. She stood in the snow, grinning up at Fletch.
    “Not interested?” Fletch asked.
    “Already phoned it in,” Freddie said. “Such a statement has three parts. Compliment the deceased’s professional expertise. Consolation for family and friends. Offer of help to opposing campaign. Did I miss anything?”
    Fletch watched as a dirty, old taxi pulled up at the factory’s main gate. The factory was an expensive taxi ride from anywhere.
    “Amazing bunch of savages. Screaming for the governor’s statement on a matter they knew the governor couldn’t even know about yet.”
    “Ah, Fletch,” Freddie said. “You’re turning establishment already.”
    A man had lifted a battered suitcase out of the taxi. Money in hand, he was arguing with the driver.
    “Who’s that?” Fletch asked.
    Freddie turned around. “That,” she said definitely, “is bad news. Mr. Bad News, himself.” Turning back to Fletch, she said, “Mr. Michael J. Hanrahan, scourge of respectable journalists everywhere, lead dirt-writer for that chain of daily lies and mischief, the scandal sheet going under the generic name
Newsbill
.”
    Carrying his suitcase in one hand, a portable typewriter in the other, overcoat hems flapping in the wind, the man was lumbering toward the campaign bus. The taxi driver was shouting something at him, which could not be heard in the wind.
    “That’s Hanrahan? I hoped never to meet him.”
    Hanrahan turned his head and spat toward the taxi driver.
    “I thought Mary Rice was covering us for
Newsbill
.”
    “Mary’s a mouse,” Freddie said. “Hanrahan’s a rat.”
    “ ’lo, Arbuthnot.” With either a smile or a grimace, Michael J. Hanrahan tipped his profile toward her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Made it with any goats lately?”
    “Always a pleasure to witness your physical and mental degeneracy, Hanrahan,” Freddie answered. “How many more hours to live do the doctors give you?”
    Hanrahan didn’t put down either his suitcase or his typewriter case. He shivered in his overcoat.
    The skin of his face was puffy, flushed, and scabrous. Between the gaps in his mouth were black and yellow teeth. His clothes looked as stale as last month’s bread.
    “Never, never use a toilet seat,” Freddie advised Fletch, “after Hanrahan has used it.”
    Hanrahan laughed. “Where’s this jackass Fletcher?” he asked her.
    “I’m the jackass,” Fletch said.
    Hanrahan closed his mouth, tried unsuccessfully to breathe through his nose, then opened his mouth again. “Oh, joy,” he muttered. “This kid doesn’t even go to the bathroom, I bet. Probably been taught not to. It isn’t nice.” He put his chin up at Fletch, who was still on the stairs of the campaign bus, and tried to give Fletch a penetrating look with bloodshot eyes, each in its own pool of poison. “Boy, are